Well, well, well. If this isn't a familiar sight. All of my friends and loved ones gathered together, with looks of concern on their faces ranging from "severe" to "mild"--that's right, grandpa: I'm looking at you. And a circle of folding chairs, with one left open for yours truly? What did you expect when you invited me to Conference Room B at the highway Hilton for a "surprise party?" It's just like the Main Street Ramada incident of 2015, only this time you didn't hire a local clown to flesh out the ruse by handing me a balloon on the way in. Honestly, you call this an intervention?
You know as well as I do that this ain't my first rodeo. Technically, I got drunk at my first rodeo and berated one of those barrel clowns about how he didn't know the meaning of an honest day's work. But is that my fault? Hardly. That concession stand shouldn't have sold me those eight beers, and then two additional beers after the head cowboy called security. That's exactly the kind of unprofessionalism that stopped me from going to my second rodeo, regardless of whether or not I'm banned from the county fair until 2026. Again, just another example of how everyone sets me up to fail.
By the way, you can just crumple up those confessional statements, because believe me have I heard them all. And don't think I don't notice when some of you covertly reword the ones you used last time. Even when half-drunk--especially now--I'm well aware of those hoary old templates you've been using since intervention one. "If you don't get the help you need today" hits my ears like a hacky Austin Power impression, and trust me when I say hearing that familiar expression makes me lose all of my "mojo." Also, do I need to really listen to a list of the "good times?" Frankly, it makes me think less of all of you. If one of the most memorable and happiest points of your life was some dumbass fishing trip I don't even remember, I really think you need to get out more. Granted, I don't remember much of anything lately, but I can only come to the conclusion that all of you are just that unmemorable.
Really, what's going to happen when I go to rehab? We've been through this song and dance before. I get an all-expenses-paid trip to some tropical locale for six weeks, someone feeds my dog, and I come home with the knowledge of 20 new kinds of spiced rum. And, nine months later, sometimes an illegitimate child, but we'll let the courts ponder that one. Hell, I could book a trip to any Hawaiian island of my choice without having to drink bad coffee for hours and suffer through a gauntlet of weepy hugs. I mean, I could, but I've decided long ago that my alcohol budget is $1200 a month, which really cuts into the old vacation fund. But since I get all those vital calories through drinking, I barely need to buy any food. That's a lifehack you can stick in your pocket and take home for free.
So, do I have a problem? I think the verdict's still out. But if I'm at least sober enough to attend my own intervention, wouldn't you all agree that's the bare level of sobriety society demands from all of us? Now, on a more important note, would any of you mind bailing me out? I just got a DUI in the parking lot and told the cop that one of you has my life-saving medication, buying me ten minutes at best.
I saw good men turned to mush in the wars against the soggies. Men much better than you, Mr. President. If you are going to take John Brennan's security clearance, take my security clearance too.
Forget beer checkers, beer chess and beer dejarik. Only these games are guaranteed to put you on dialysis by age 30.
Bonk: The Only Good Bonk Is A Head Bonk
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